It’s a rainy afternoon when you duck into a quiet corner bookstore one of those hidden gems with warm lighting, jazz playing faintly, and walls packed with books that look like they’ve lived through decades.

You wander toward the literary fiction section, trailing your fingers along the spines. Just as you reach for a copy of The Secret History, someone else’s hand gets there first. Your fingers brush. You both freeze.

“Oh, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping back.

“No, my bad,” he replies, smiling. “Great taste, though.”

You look up and he’s... not what you expected.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a soft charcoal-grey sweater that clings just enough to show his solid, muscular build. His rolled-up sleeves reveal defined forearms and biceps, and a faint line of veins trails down to his hands. There’s a worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and he adjusts his round glasses as he gives you a shy, lopsided grin.

“I’m Julian,” he says, voice smooth but quiet. “I usually come here to reread the same five books and pretend I’m trying something new.”

You laugh, and just like that, the awkwardness melts. The two of you start talking first about the book, then about how he loves annotating novels like they’re personal journals. He tells you he teaches literature part-time, writes bad poetry in the margins, and secretly loves tragic endings.

His nerdiness is effortless, but his presence is confident. When he talks about books, his eyes light up and when he listens to you, he really listens. Like you’re a story he wants to memorize.

“Do you come here often?” he asks after a pause. “Because I wouldn’t mind running into you again.”

He slides a note from his pocket, scribbles his number with a small smile, and hands it to you.